


The Flesh and the Blood

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Hell, Paved with Priests' Skulls [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I blame Viking promo pics that this exists, M/M, lots of blasphemy here, monk smut, trigger warning for self flagellation in a religious context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Along his forehead and the back of his neck, his blond curls are damp with sweat. “Brother Grantaire.” </p>
<p>(It is always Brother Grantaire, until they touch themselves or one another and Enjolras loses track of the title somewhere on Grantaire’s tongue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flesh and the Blood

They had begun an unsteady friendship, of sorts. While Brother Enjolras spent his evenings after vespers writing treatises to various bishops and archbishops and cardinals about the importance of the souls of the poor--and the greedy church officials who were always trying to swindle them with expensive pardons and indulgences--Brother Grantaire spent his evenings beside him. They would argue late into the night. Enjolras would speak aloud of the various injustices, and Grantaire would return with half-hearted debate, until Enjolras found the exact words that he was looking for and finally put ink to parchment in a frenzy.

Not quite a friendship, but Grantaire felt useful, and he took advantage of every opportunity to bask in Enjolras’s holy light.

In spite of the time they spent in each other’s company, Grantaire could count on one hand the number of times that Enjolras had bedded him.

He tried desperately not seek these opportunities _specifically_ , but it was difficult not to, when Enjolras was in an impassioned state, hands white-knuckled around a fragile quill and gaze full of fury. They were never gentle with one another, but Grantaire did not mind. And he knew without asking that Enjolras was attending confession more often than he ever had before. While Grantaire took care to avoid either side of the confessional, after that first encounter, he knew the Abbot must be aware of their infrequent copulations, the filth that plagued them both, yet his demeanor to Grantaire remained kind and unsuspicious. Yes, actual confession was an odd thing, to Grantaire, and he would not ruin the memory of his last experience there with tedious prayers in penance.

After their second time, in the sacristy, Enjolras had urged Grantaire to go to confession himself. Grantaire had agreed, and then promptly ignored his instruction. His soul was of no true account, despite Enjolras’s insistence otherwise.

The last time, Grantaire had asked him, as they straightened their robes and pulled up their cowls against the cold--they had been in the garden, and left his face and hands and knees covered in dirt and small scratches--simply _why_.

_I must have no distractions from pursuing the work of God._

_That’s no answer._

_It is less of a nuisance to sin for an hour or two, when I must, than if I allow the sinful thoughts to consume my mind in its entirely. I accomplish more of His work, in this way._

Grantaire suspected that Saint Thomas Aquinas might disagree with that reasoning, but if Enjolras was content to fuck him once a fortnight in order follow God’s preordained plan for him, then Grantaire would certainly not object on the basis of foolish theology. 

For a day or two after, every time, Enjolras would not look upon Grantaire at all, and avoid coming to him with fresh arguments about the avarice of clergymen, and avoid him altogether. But now it had been a span of eight long days and longer night, and Enjolras had not deigned to speak to him, only curt nods when they passed each other along the cloister. Grantaire had determined that he would find out why, and with only two cupfuls of sacramental wine in his belly to boost his courage.

He takes care that his steps are quiet, along the dormitory where his brothers sleep. Enjolras shall surely be awake, though, hard at work on some sort of new essay.

He slips through Enjolras’s door without knocking--there are no locks on any of their individual doors, obviously, for why should monks in celibacy have need of them? He expects to see Enjolras at his rickety desk, sleeves rolled up, all golden halo of hair and ink-stained fingertips. Perhaps with a book or two lying open at his side, for reference.

That is not how he finds him.

His Enjolras is splayed out on his narrow bed, face down in only his underclothes. From the doorway, Grantaire can see his shuddering, sharp intakes of breath in the rise and fall of his shoulders, his back. And he might form some designs of a lustful nature upon this quivering, almost-nude angel, were it not for the lines across that once-beautiful, bare back. The flickering light of a solitary candle reveals them. Red, angry welts cover his back, and blood beads and trickles down from the more severe marks.

Grantaire makes a sound of distress, something between a gasp and a sob, and takes a few steps toward the bed. “Enjolras,” he whispers, and falters when the man turns his head to face him. He does not get up, and this is not the Enjolras of movement and sacred fire that Grantaire has come to love so well. His body continues to quake.

Along his forehead and the back of his neck, his blond curls are damp with sweat. “Brother Grantaire.” 

(It is always _Brother_ Grantaire, until they touch themselves or one another and Enjolras loses track of the title somewhere on Grantaire’s tongue.)

“What have you done?” And Grantaire cannot quell the anger in his voice, the swell of rage he feels toward Enjolras in this moment. He’s unable to remember the last time he felt anything akin to the sin of wrath--though sloth and lust are constants for him--but here it is, hot and unwanted. He sees the whip abandoned beside the bed--a rod of ash, with several lengths of leather cords tied onto one end. It clatters as he kicks it against the wall. 

“Enjolras, _why?_ ” he seethes.

“ _Put to death what is earthly in you: fornication, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry_. Colossians,” he sighs, and raises himself up slightly on his elbows. The movement makes him wince, and his mouth twists.

Wrath is replaced by guilt. Grantaire slumps onto the bed, and he is careful not to touch him despite the tiny width. “You wished to purge yourself of your evil desires, then,” he says. After a long pause, he mutters, “I do not force my attentions upon you, but I will halt my free gift of them if you find them so hateful as to do this to yourself.”

Enjolras pulls at Grantaire’s sleeve. A gesture from anyone else might even be called affectionate. “I punish myself only for my own transgressions. Your sins belong to you alone.” His blue eyes burn.

(They both know it’s a lie, but bearing false witness has always carried less of a penance than sodomy, so they allow it to pass without remark.) 

He doesn’t flinch when Grantaire reaches out with a paintbrush-calloused hand to gently trace the raised lines that mar his flesh, though as their eyes meet briefly, Enjolras must glance down at the floor, instead.

When his fingers come away with blood, Grantaire wipes it away on his tunic, a hidden stain on the blackness of the wool. He leans forward, presses his lips to the bump on Enjolras’s spine from which the blood emerged. It will be a scab, soon, and then a sliver of scar.

“You won’t do this again,” he murmurs against the skin, and realizes he is unused to commanding Enjolras. “Please.”

Strong fingers grip hard in his hair and heave him upwards. Enjolras turns onto his side and drags Grantaire to him in a bruising kiss. So hard their teeth clack together, and Grantaire forces himself to push away. He stumbles back, and almost falls against the severe stone wall.

Through shallow breaths he says, “No. Not if this is the result.” He waves a hand at the butchery of Enjolras’s back, and in case it bears repeating: “No.”

“Grantaire, I--” And it’s not quite a plea, but it is close enough. As he tries to rise from bed, his face contorts with the pain of it, but Enjolras is determined. He makes his way on shaking legs to where the other man has hunched in the corner. It is only two short steps, but in his slowness, Grantaire meets him halfway.

He could marvel over the feeling of Enjolras’s bare chest underneath his hands for hours, he thinks. Like a statue carved from marble--he spends his days out in the village, helping the people with building cottages and moving livestock--and those days spent outdoors have left him strong. Grantaire would wrap his thinner, weaker arms around him, if he could do so without harming him.

Enjolras’s hot breath on his neck, then lips, then _teeth_ , and Grantaire lets himself be guided to the bed. Hands still wander carefully along the flat planes of arms and torso, then here, where stomach narrows into a sculpted hip.

He fumbles to untie his own belt, while Enjolras pulls his scapula over his head and pushes his robe back and off his shoulders onto the floor, until they are both skin on skin--they shuffle out of their undergarments, too--

Then Enjolras is grinding his hips against Grantaire, and they’re both already hard, of course they are, and it’s

a drawn-out moan escapes him, and Enjolras stops abruptly, with the glare of an avenging angel.

“You must quiet yourself, before you wake the entire abbey,” he growls.

Grantaire nods, swallows. Yes, yes, he’ll do anything for the feel of-- _there_ \--a firm hand on his cock, and he falls back onto the straw mattress. The beginnings of a whimper threaten, and Enjolras pushes his hand that isn’t on Grantaire’s cock up to his mouth to gag him. Grantaire licks his palm and then bites down on it--he tastes like ink and sweat and just a hint of candlewax--and he maneuvers his mouth until he has Enjolras’s fingers between his lips. He licks down the length of them, then sucks them into the slickness of his mouth. Fingernails scrape at front of his throat

and this time Enjolras makes all of the noise, from where his mouth is busy sucking at Grantaire’s collarbone--low enough for his tunic to hide the marks--and his hand tightens on Grantaire, and Grantaire thrusts up into his grip and tries to focus more on Enjolras’s fingers in his mouth, miming what he would very much _like_ to be doing instead--

But they are too hurried, always too hurried in their rush to dive straight into hell. Enjolras tears his hand from Grantaire’s mouth and shoves his legs apart, and Grantaire’s head falls back onto the pillow as

Enjolras’s fingers, first one and then another, slick with Grantaire’s own saliva. There’s no easing into it, as he plunges into him, watching his face intently. Grantaire closes his eyes, arches up, moving his own hips against Enjolras’s hand, and he adds a third finger, presses just _there._

Grantaire opens his red, wrecked mouth and makes a strangled sound.

“Enjolras,” he gasps, between shallow breaths. “Please.” 

(From Grantaire it is always a plea, and he wonders if his entire existence is simply a plea for Enjolras in any way he might be allowed to have him.)

The welts and the cuts on Enjolras’s back stretch and burn as he positions himself between Grantaire’s legs. Grantaire stares up at him, eyes half-lidded with desire and something that might be called worship--but that is blasphemy--and Enjolras changes his mind.

“Turn over,” he commands, through gritted teeth.

Grantaire scrambles to comply, moves onto his hands and knees, and he hears rather than sees Enjolras spit into his hand. He turns his head back, watches Enjolras close his eyes in pleasure as he wets his cock. When he’s finished, Grantaire braces himself on his elbows and then Enjolras snaps his hips forward and Grantaire is lost.

He pushes himself upwards, arching his body into Enjolras, and he tries to quiet his steady stream of grunts and moaning as the other man thrusts into him. 

(Grantaire spends a moment wondering if Enjolras is looking at him or at them or at the crucifix hanging on the wall above the bed.)

With one hand bruising Grantaire’s hipbone, the other drags along the curve of his spine, so hard that Grantaire wonders if they’ll be left with matching scars. The hint of pain only serves to augment his pleasure, though, and he falls forward into the pillow as he reaches to wrap a hand around his cock and begins to stroke and he knows he won’t last long but

Enjolras buries a hand into Grantaire’s curls, tugs upwards _hard_  

Grantaire’s back curves like a bow in the other direction now, and _there that does it_ and Enjolras knows, they’ve learned the secrets of each other’s bodies all too well by now.

When Grantaire comes into a combination of his hand and Enjolras’s sheets he wants to  scream, and settles for a low groan into the pillow, instead.

The muscles tightening around Enjolras’s cock and soft moan of his name sends Enjolras spiraling

into spots of color in the dark room--the candle has gone out, when did that happen--and he loses all rhythm and a series of erratic thrusts

and he collapses against the smoothness of Grantaire’s unmarred back, breathing heavily.

Grantaire is silent, sated and content.

But never Enjolras. He rises to his feet without looking at Grantaire, though he’s aware of Grantaire’s eyes on him as he begins to dress. His wounds hurt him less, now, the stinging of the lash pushed to the back of his mind. He begins to pull on his hairshirt, and Grantaire, still limp on the bed, snorts.

“A hairshirt? Do not cause yourself such pain, dear heart,” Grantaire says. He tries to sound mocking, but he cannot mask his concern.

Enjolras ignores him, slides on his tunic over the scratching garment. The animal hair brushes his raw welts, and Grantaire cannot help but commend him for not even wincing.

As Enjolras ties his belt, Grantaire reaches for him, and grabs his hand.

Earnest eyes meet cold ones.

“You will not hurt yourself like that again?” he asks.

“And you will go to confession,” says Enjolras, succinctly. “Now get dressed. Matins are in less than an hour, and I would rather our brothers see you emerge from your own room instead of mine.”

Grantaire sleeps through matins, albeit in his own bed. And later that day, he dutifully goes to confession.


End file.
